


The Forging of an Empire

by Neversleep_inc



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Antarctic Empire Faction on SMPEarth (Video Blogging RPF), BAMF Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Immortal Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Minor Injuries, Minor Original Character(s), My First AO3 Post, Pig Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-27 20:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30128148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neversleep_inc/pseuds/Neversleep_inc
Summary: A man heated in loss, preformed in revenge, forged in bloodshed, cooled in strength, and finished in hope finds himself an unwitting emperor. Taking the loss and broken under metaphorical and physical wings, he becomes a legend, both feared loved. Those he protects, he does so ruthlessly, and those he fights perish brutally.The story of Phil's background, how he became an Emperor, and how he found his kids.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Heating the Furnace

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first posting on AO3, and I hope its enjoyable. I'm dyslexic, so sometimes my words and grammar will be a bit goofy, and I rest my hopes of formed sentences in Grammarly's free help.  
> -  
> The mobs are somewhat based off of Minecraft's mobs, but I took my liberties.  
> -  
> Obviously this is based on characters, not the actual people.

Oily blood coats iron boots as ungodly shrieks fill the air. _Advance. Deflect. Lunge. Repeat._ A Diamond encrusted sword plunges through the throat of a lanky beast. The creature falls to its knees, warbling its last groans through a blade, and its own vile blood. It joins the bodies of its brethren, jaw lax and gaping. A blond man exhales slowly, sheathing the bloodied blade, and sinks to the ground. Retrieving a dagger from his hip, he makes an incision in the chest of the recently slain monster, slicing carefully through rancid flesh and cracking a flinty ribcage. A glistening blue orb rests where a heart should be, shining in the pale light of the moon. Slick fingers reach into the chest cavity, grasping the sphere, and yanking. With a sickening pop, it’s pulled out of the corpse, and placed into a leather pouch. Slice. Crack. Pop. Repeat. After a few moments, each putrid body was empty of its false heart. The blonde wipes his filthy hands on his pants and stands up. With a gust of wind, all that is left in the clearing are lifeless entities and a handful of feathers.

Large, magpie wings are tucked under a green coat. _Barter. Trade. Buy. Repeat._ Pale blue eyes searched for supplies. Arrows, Rations, oh, maybe bandages. Shopkeepers hollering their deals, offering their wares. Children laughing, chasing each other through muddy streets. The air is filled with the scent of hay and baked bread. It’s peaceful. The blond wasn't. Pulling his green bucket hat over his eyes, the man pushes his way through the throng of people, towards the village outskirts when he hears it, the sounds of scuffling, taunts, jeers, and… crying. Rounding a few corners, the man follows the sounds of mocking voices when he sees it, a kid curled in on itself in the dirt, brutal feet kicking it. The man spoke up with a shout,  
“Oi!”.  
The boys surrounding the child on the floor freeze, the biggest of them seemingly mid-kick, and shouting turns to murmurs.  
“Leave the kid alone.”  
The tallest of the boys spits out, “Fucking freak” at the kid, slamming his boot into the kid’s chest, before turning around. The group walks away from the man, and the child lying in the dirt. The blonde walks towards the shaking youngster on the ground before softly murmuring,  
“Hey mate..”  
Silence.  
“You alright?”  
The kid scrambles away from the man, looking at the blonde. It was a girl, sunken eyes, with dirty feet, tattered clothes, ratty hair, and… horns. A hybrid. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out a chunk of bread wrapped in cloth, offering it to the girl. She takes it slowly, before staggering to her feet, and bolting off into the town. Sighing, he tilts his head up to look at the sky, bag weighing a little less, but heart a little fuller. Damn him and his bleeding heart.

Wings flutter softly, and a sigh leaves the man’s lips. _Light fire. Sleep. Douse fire. Repeat._ He has a goal, a reason for his traveling. The nonstop moving, hunting, gathering, more gathering, and searching. All for one thing. After that, he would settle down, have a home. Maybe. Who was he kidding, he would have a house, but he would never stop moving, exploring, journeying as far as his wings would take him. The world was large, and he wanted to know every part of it. Every cave, stream, tree, and ocean. But he has a mission, a goal, a… a what? An idea..maybe? Yes. An Idea. A world where towns wouldn’t be torched by purple fire, where people wouldn’t fear the night nearly as much as they do now, when survivors of the beast’s attacks wouldn’t cough up violet phlegm, where his hometown would be safe, and not burnt to the ground. His hometown. God, he missed it. _The only place where he could stretch his wings safely, where his long-dead friends could wander the streets , safe and sound, with hybrid looks shown freely. He missed the kind old baker, who would sneak him cookies when he was young. The butcher whose laugh filled the town square. The blacksmith who smelled of ash, and fire coursed around his hands as he worked, unburnt by the heat of the forge. The beggar on the street corner who always told the best jokes. The farmer who had taken him in when he had no one. All taken from him with the beating of scaled wings, a fiery roar of lavender fury, and the scorching heat of the darkest of magic. Everything had been destroyed, everything but him. He had crawled from the beaten rubble, dragging his worn body away. The smell of burning flesh and hair had clung to him for weeks as he recovered._ He didn't know how he had lived, couldn’t know. All he knew was that the dragon who left him clinging to life, fighting for every breath, who took his home from him, was going to suffer. He was going to kill that dragon, even if it took him down with it.

His hands shake in anticipation. _Sharpen weapons. Check gear. Ready medical supplies. Repeat._ He found it. He found the dragon’s home. He was going to destroy it, just like it destroyed his. He secures his light armor, a mixture of leather and iron, to his body. Attaching his quiver and sword to his hips, and carefully sliding a longbow around his wings, and, as an afterthought, he straps his dagger to his chest. He prepares for his descent. He stands in front of a gaping hole in the ground and drops a torch. It falls. And falls. And stops. He shrugs his shoulders, wings twitching, and jumps. The wind rushes past his ears, making his heart leap with joy. The beacon of light gets closer, closer, and finally… with a whoosh of power, Magpie wings shoot from his sides, catching air. His wings beat once, twice, three times, cupping and locking around his body, and he lands. One knee hits the ground, his feathered appendages shooting out to the sides to stable himself, and he rises to face the maw of a cave. Finally. Lighting a new torch, he drags a chunk of charcoal from his satchel. With a ruffle of feathers, he walks to the right-hand side of the cave and scratches an X in black cinders. He begins his descent, marking the wall with X’s occasionally to lead his way back. One X. Two X. Three X. A rattle echoes through the cave, and he stiffens, drawing his sword from his side. A decrepit arrow flies past him, shaking in the air. He steps to the side, hiding behind a rocky outcrop, and waits. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of bones grinding together and rusty armor slowly make their way towards his hiding place. One breath. Two Breaths. Three breaths. An undead monstrosity shambles its way into his vision. A skeleton. He swings his sword down, slicing a bow riddled in dry rot in half. The skeleton lurches forward, and he grabs its dingy forearm, swinging it to the opposite cave wall with a crash. Its empty skull crumbles with the force of the swing, and any dark magic holding the abomination together disperses with a hiss. Another ratty arrow shakes through the air, and he dodges, thrusting the light of his torch deeper into the cave, a second skeleton rattles forwards. The monster goes to aim its bow, and it crumbles in its hands, wood so old and rotten it falls into dust. He lunges forward, and drops, swinging his leg around and into the bones of the skeleton. The undead falls to the ground and the winged warrior stomps in the skull, dispatching a tortured soul tethered by black magic to its final resting place. A final, unarmed skeleton lumbers towards him, and he reaches his hand out, and grasps the skull with one hand, preparing to thrust it into the cold walls of the cave, but it crumbles into damp dust under his fingers. The musty powder falls like pebbles, and a layer of it covers his boots. He steps forward, onto the fallen body, and the bones fall to dust under his careful tread. That’s when he notices the tunnel narrows, guiding him towards his destination.  
He moves forward, shuffling through the dark until he is greeted by decrepit bricks, covered in moss, and a musty odor. He shoulders it open and is met with the sight of a long hallway, iron bars lining the sides. Nowhere to go but forward, he cautiously makes his way down the hallway, and a growl echoes through the room, followed by a rattling of chains. He notices a lantern bolted to the wall. He lights it. Another growl. Then a grown. A clammy hand grasps at his wing, and he reacts instantly, twirling around, and slicing down with the diamond-encrusted sword. A sickening thump, _(a putrid arm hits the ground)_ followed by a wheeze of a zombie is his greeting. A chorus of moans, groans, and grinding teeth fill the air in a cacophony of horror. Monsters fill the hallway, men of old countries and fallen kingdoms stashed behind iron prisons, desperately reaching to the warrior.

Old armor glimmering dimly in the light of his torch adorn the bodies of the undead as they clamber for a taste of flesh. His flesh. He moves on. Through halls of cold stone, he follows a draft of air, smelling of old magic and death. Deeper, deeper, deeper he goes, meeting undead horrors, and easily dispatching them, until a group of four clambers towards him. He doges, and easily slices the head off of an old soldier, his left-wing dashing out, knocking another to the ground. He stomps on the fallen monsters rotting knee, severing it from its body. He blocks a hit from a brutish corpse, then plunges his torch into its open mouth. The old, tattered flesh lights in a blaze, and the creature stumbles under the fire licking its dry skin. Pulling his wings in he ducks under a swinging rancid arm, and stabs his sword into the stale heart of the creature, and pulls it out. Black ooze seeps out of the wound as the zombie on the ground reaches for him, and he dispatches it with ease. His sword driving through its ancient spine, and diseased life force hisses out, leaving the body devoid of movement. Then he notices a hum. A powerful buzz, alighting his senses. He follows the sound until an eerie blue glow from inside a room catches his eye. He steps in and is greeted by a frame of strange material. The portal. The legends were right.  
He pulls his satchel to his forefront, reaches in, and removes the glistening orbs he collected many days ago, now covered in a glowing powder. Setting them into the divots gracing the frame, the hums grow louder, and louder with each one. The last orb is placed, and the chorus cuts out with a deafening silence. A galaxy of blues and greys ooze from the orbs, pooling into a film of starlight that shudders with each of the winged man’s breath. Everything he has learned, everything he has searched for, is in front of him. He steps into the puddle of universe and is hit with a wave of nausea, and his vision fades. With a spark of light, it reignites, and his sight is filled with towering columns of obsidian, pale ground, an unending void, and a dragon. A fierce, screeching Dragon.

This is it.

**This is the end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer, but I really like the ending of this paragraph, and It felt like a good thing to end it on. it seemed like a natural break, and I went with it. 
> 
> Notes:  
> -I really liked adding the way old bone disintegrates! I'm not certain if any of you have found old bones hanging around, but my old homestead I lived on had a bone pit in the forest, and a bone pit in a nearby gravel pit. When my siblings and I where playing, we used to dig up the bones (cow bones and horse bones) and assemble the bodies of them as best we could. Some of the oldest bones would disintegrate into this fine dust when you picked them up, or bashed them into something, Or they would crack into brittle shards. The powder was always cold and damp, and it was crazy gritty, and the shards where always super sharp, and could hurt quite a bit if you weren't careful.  
> -I wanted to incorporate the weathering of tools, such as the bows and arrows of the long dead. I thought it would be cool for some of the bows to just break when the skeletons used them. I always thought it was silly in Skyrim when the bows where still working when the Draugr used them, because the tension needed to fire an arrow would not be held up by crazy old wood that was untreated and not taken care of.  
> -I decided on giving Phil a hip quiver for arrows because I have one myself! I prefer the hip quiver over the bow mounted and back mounted quivers. I also decided to not give Phil an arm guard, because I never really used them when I was little, and I don't use one now. I'm not certain of the logistics of them, or how common they are, but I figured it would be okay to not give him one.  
> That's all I wanted to say at the end of this chapter!  
> Assuming anyone sees this, comments and Suggestions are really appreciated!


	2. Doused Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon and a warrior cross skills. 
> 
> -Beginning notes have some warnings, I guess. Not certain if they are necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Some mild descriptions of sickness, and a baby bit of gore and injuries.  
> -Description of a panic attack? Sort of.  
> -We've got an unreliable narrator for a lil bit here. Its pretty clear when it happens.

The air is stifling, a static buzzing in his skin. Focus. Breathe. Stay Concentrated. Repeat. The liquid galaxy at his feet warbles, trying to pull him back through. Stepping out of it, he surges forward into the clutches of the winged serpent. Lanky black monsters warble and whoop around him, and he fights for focus. The gazes of the creatures are hypnotic, drawing his eyes to theirs, but he doesn’t make eye contact. If he does, the seemingly docile creatures will attack with ebony teeth and gaping jaws. He can take them, he has slain swarms before, but he has a bigger villain to defeat. He slips the longbow from his back as he runs over the uneven, pale surface, searching for cover against the obsidian towers. Taking an arrow, fletched with swan feathers, he nocks it, draws, and fires. It hits the dragon but doesn’t damage it. In fact, the dragon doesn’t stall or flinch. It roars, loud and deafening. His ears ring and he can feel the noise shaking his ribs in his chest. The dragon takes to the sky, wings beating in defiance. He grabs another arrow. It whistles through the air. It strikes ancient scales and breaks. The beast retaliates by the spitting of orchid flames, licking the stones, slaughtering the lanky creatures idling nearby. Another arrow. Then Another. The Dragon dives, its midnight wings soar towards the ground, towards him. He lurches out of the way, but not fast enough. A mist of black and purple soot descends on him, and it sears his lungs when he inhales. Fuck. That wasn't good. He dashes to the left, away from the sickly soot gracing the nearby floor, and takes to the sky. He volleys arrow, after arrow, after arrow, and arrow, and... Fuck. He only had eight. Just a basic fucking quiver, with basic fucking arrows. He wasn't prepared. He couldn’t do this. He was going to fail, and there was nothing he could do, and everything has lead to his failure. He can't breathe. His wings flap, keeping his body afloat, but his mind was sinking. Fast. And then it hits him. Physically, and literally.

The scaly wings of his opponent slam into him, sending him careening into the floor. With a crack he lands, head and neck whipping forward with the force, and slamming into the rocky ground. He hears screaming. Oh, that’s him. His arm can't move, why. Why can't it move? His legs hurt. He’s still screaming. Can he even feel his wings? Are they still there? His lungs crack in effort. He can't see, can't breathe, can't fight, he’s going to die, he’s going to die. He’s. Going. To. **die**. The dragon lands with a slam in front of him, sharp claws scratching divots into the floor. A low hiss rolls from its mouth, steam and mist rolling from its maw, caressing the fallen warrior’s body with venom. He scrambles backward, wheezing and spluttering. He doesn’t want to die. He feels like a struggling sparrow in the grasp of a shrike. He doesn't want to die. The shrike grows closer to a stake, getting ready to impale him. He doesn’t want to die. His wings convulse in fear, his breath hitches. He coughs and hacks, violet phlegm spewing into the air. He doesn’t want to die. He. Doesn’t. Want. To. Die. He doesn’t, oh. The static, the _humming_ , it’s back. It’s speaking, he listens. It raises its voice, he flinches. It **yells,** and he staggers to his feet, ribs groaning with the weight of his bruised body, but the voices hum under his skin, shooting adrenaline into his tired veins.

He draws his sword… and throws it to the ground. It was too heavy. Fuck, His skin feels too heavy. He flees. He runs to the awaiting pool of universe and hurls itself into its chilling grasp. The liquid envelops him, soothing his fire-scorched skin, calming the twitches of his body, and gently pulls him deeper into its cool grasp. He’s tired. So tired. He feels the galaxy shift, and he breathes in hoarsely, tasting the mildew-soaked air of the old cave that led him here. On the exhale, he chokes, chest convulsing into a rancid cough. He feels the bile before it rises. The void water pushes him out of its well, and he vomits. Purple and black bile surge from his constricting throat, and spills from between his lips. Fuck. He stumbles forwards and falls. He’s tired. So tired. His eyes slip shut, and he sleeps. 

With a jolt, he sits up. That was a mistake. Bile rises in his throat, and he vomits again. The purple acid burns. He’s sick and injured. He needs help. _He’s going to die from illness and injuries._ There's a village nearby. _That sounds nice. It has cats._

He pulls himself to his feet and tries to leave the maze of cracked bricks. _He hears boots. Oh, it’s his own._ His chest is so tight, it feels like there’s a ravager sitting on him. _There’s not, he looked to make sure. There is a dagger though. A boy gave it to him. Or did he take it? He doesn’t know._

_He follows a spider_. He blinks. He blinks again, and he’s outside. His hands are bleeding. There’s dirt under his fingernails. _He’s missing a thumbnail. Maybe he can find it again? No, that’s silly._ He coughs again. His chest heaves and his lungs wheeze on the inhale and exhale. A mucus bubble forms in his throat, and he spits it out.

Its violet hue jolts his heart, and he stumbles forwards. _There’s a bird in the sky. He likes birds._

The path is rocky. _There’s a smooth stone that looks like a frog. Frogs are cute_. The sun is going down. When did that happen? _After the spider?_ He chokes on a breath, his whole body shakes in a choke as his throat clenches. Oh, there’s a light. _Light is good_.

There’s a house. Oh, and another! There are some voices too. They don't hum. They don't buzz in his ears, but God, do they sting. _It makes his eyes water._

There’s a face starring at him. _It’s the baker, the one who gives him cookies. He should apologize, He couldn’t save them, or their family._ He feels cold. He opens his mouth to stutter out a sorry, an apology, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a grinding wheeze. _The face swarms, and suddenly it’s his own, bloody and bruised, then it’s a blank slate of flesh._ He stumbles, breath catching, shaking, and hands reach out to him. Fuck, everything is so loud. _The flesh slate is talking to him? Or is it groaning. He can't tell_. The noise buzzes in his ears, sharp needles puncturing his eardrums. A light is pushed into his vision. It burns. _It Burns like dragons breath. He knows what that feels like._ Another cough. His knees buckle. Hands? _Claws?_ Something grabs him. He can't fight it. _He misses his home. He doesn’t have one anymore. Maybe the grasp is taking him home. He would like that._ He hacks and heaves out violet and black slime. He feels himself moving, he doesn’t think he’s walking. It’s bright, loud, and everything burns. He’s tired. He feels a cloth of darkness slip over his mind, like the grasp of seaweed in a lake, slimy and cold. Then there is nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I had chapter two written, I didn't like it, I had a great idea, so I rewrote it. I upheaved my plan, so I'm glad I didn't finish 'Chapter one' like I was going to. 
> 
> Creature Note: I decided to make the endermen kind of like those Mesmer fish from Sub Nautica, where they pull you into looking at them, then attack. I wanted them to be a bit more dangerous for the world, instead of it being an accidental look into their eyes, its like a hypnotic pull to look in the endermen eyes, then they attack. Its fightable, but takes practice. 
> 
> World Note: I made it so you can go in and out of the dragons lair with ought fukin dying so our man philza can make a tactical , well thought out retreat. 
> 
> Story Note: I liked the thought of breaking down a character instead of letting them reach their goal in one try. He's never fought a dragon before, so there is going to be a learning curve for him. 
> 
> Authors Note: I have a frog. She's beautiful, chunky, and I love her. Her name is Pancake. I found a rock that looked like her, cleaned it, and now she likes to sit on it in her tank. I would die for her. I also have three cats (used to have 7), two dogs, and a planted 10gal. aquarium, whose only occupant is currently a nerite snail. 
> 
> If anyone sees this, Comments are always appreciated, and I'd love to interact with anyone that reads this. I would love suggestions! I have a base outline of the story with major and minor plot points, but Id love more ideas and constructive criticism.


	3. Simmering Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battered avian, A cautious couple, and An old Farmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Description of Panic attacks  
> \- Mild dissociation  
> -Semi Unreliable Narrator  
> -Mild injuries

_ His wings.  _ He couldn’t move them. _ Where was he? It’s dark. So dark. _ He can't move his wings. He can't move his arm. He panics, letting out a screech. His wings flail helplessly behind him. _ He couldn't move.  _ HE fell off of whatever the hell he was laying on, limbs scrambling for anything to latch on to. Someone rushes into the room, hissing and yelling, holding him down. He kicks, screams, bites, claws, scratches. _ Fuck, they grabbed his wings. He couldn't breathe.  _ His chest convulses, curling in on himself. He screams, more avian than human. A primal sound that rattles the bones of those who hear it. A retching cough breaks from his lips. _ His head hurts.  _ Another person appears, holding down his legs. _ He can’t move. He can't breathe.  _ He coughs, choking on air. He emits a desperate chirp, a cry for help, for someone, anyone to save him. He tries to move, he can't. _ He’s being held too tightly. He’s alone, so very alone. The grasp on his wing BURNS. It’s too tight, too tight, and he’s dying, his lungs don't work. He feels himself floating from his body. He feels cold, unsafe, and so very, very, far away from where he should be.  _ He freezes, joints locking up, and eyes shift glossily. _ He sinks into the waters of his mind, unable to move, swim, breathe, anything! Until there is nothing. _

He wakes up in the dark again. _ He can't move.  _ There’s food next to him in the darkness. He can smell it. They want him to eat. _ Who wants him to eat? He doesn’t know. There’s blood under his fingernails.  _ He can't move his arm. _ He can't eat.  _ His stomach roils in fear. He can't move his wings. _ Can't move his wings, which means he’s in danger, danger, danger. He can't eat. Can't sleep. Can’t BREATHE.  _ He claws at his feathers, his eyes, his hair. _ It’s dark, it’s so dark. He’s so alone.  _ So hungry, but so very very afraid. He coughs, and shakes, and heaves up more orchid phlegm. He twitches and scrabbles at his back, yanking at feathers. Why can't he move his wings? Why can't he escape? _ Why. Why, Why why why why.  _

They notice he doesn’t eat. They hold him down, try and force him to. _ He screams and kicks. He can't move his wings. He can't breathe.  _ He coughs some more, wheezing, choking gasps. They try and put something down his throat. _ Not safe, not safe, Can't move. Can't fly, can't ESCAPE.  _ He claws at the hands holding his head. He claws at his skin. It itches. He hacks a breath in and out. Hands are grasping his wrists, stopping his scratching, his moving.. _.his escape. He’s stuck. He can't move his wings. He’s so very lost. So very afraid. _ They try and feed him something, holding him down, opening his mouth. He freezes. Whatever they give him, he chokes. They turn him on his side, and he coughs it out, along with vile black and violet bile. Words are swirling around him. He doesn’t understand.  _ Can't understand. _ And it’s still so dark, and cold, and he floats away again. 

He can't itch anymore. Can't tear at the feathers on his back. They wrapped his fingers in cloth.  _ Wrapped his wings, can't move, they bound his lungs, can't breathe, can't leave.  _ It’s dark. They try and give him water again. He chokes, gags, and nearly passes out.  _ It’s so dark _ . Cool hands touch his face, and another screech leaves his throat.  _ He’s so lost.  _ Gentle hands comb through his hair. He thrashes.  _ Not safe, not safe, not safe.  _ Someone is singing. He freezes.  _ Tired, so tired, so dark, so alone, so scared, so hungry.  _ He rattles out a dry cough. Something warm is placed on his chest.  _ Its fire, burning burning, his home, his family, his whole LIFE. His wings, his skin, HE CAN'T BREATHE.  _ The rattling breaths soothe slightly.  _ How? The fire?  _ There’s more singing, and he feels himself drift slowly away.

He wakes up slowly this time. Something is drumming on his shoulder. Someone is speaking to him, the movement stops. He’s being pulled to sit upright. Strong hands grip his shoulders, stopping him from tipping over. When they leave, he feels his left shoulder sag, and wing tilting downwards. Firm, but delicate, fingers run over his collar bone, searching and prodding. They skirt to his shoulder again,(footsteps move behind him)until the fingers begin palpitating his back muscle, near where his wing sprouts from his back. Were they talking again? Or is that just a hum of pain resonating through him... He twitches.  _ Oh, I can move. _ He flexes his wings slowly, and a sharp pain shoots up his left side, needles of agony spearing into him. Gentle hands settle the movement and run soothingly over his back.  _ It’s not dark. He can see light through his eyelids. His eyes are still closed. He doesn’t want to open them.  _ He coughs and opens his eyes. He’s in a room with a window, the shades cracked open to let light seep in. Particles of dust float lazily in the beam of light that breaches the glass pane. The wood floor looks old but clean. He’s resting upon a bed, and someone is standing behind him. He tries to look over his shoulder, but pain in his chest freezes him in place. Footsteps plod around him, and an older man appears in front of him. The man is tall, with sun-weathered skin, and a kind, but stern face. 

“Can ya hear me?” The old man questions. He nods. 

“Yer lookin’ a bit rough, aren’t cha. I'm Olan. Let’s see if we can't figure out what's wrong.” The gentleman, _ no, Olan, _ continues his prodding. He feels his chest tighten, and he’s coughing again. Harsh, stark gasps burn his lungs. He can't manage to catch his breath, and fuzzy spots float in his vision as his head swims. He barely notices lurching forward and doesn’t notice when he is carefully guided to a resting position. He sleeps.

He wakes up in a light-filled room. His wings twitch.  _ They can move.  _ Something is wrapped around his midsection. It hurts. A wheeze leaves his lungs, and he can feel bile rolling in his stomach. A door creaks open, and Olan steps into the room he resides in.  _ Don't move. Predator? Danger.  _ He is carrying a tray, holding a variety of items _ ,  _ and  __ Sets the tray at the foot of his bed. The man pulls a chair from the corner of the room and sits a reasonable distance away. He sighs, and leans forward on his elbows before he speaks,

“I'm gunna have ta’ look at your wings. I’m not gunna hurt ya.”

_ He hasn’t killed me yet. I need help. He freed my wings. Maybe it’s fine. _

*****  
  


When someone pounds on his door in the early morning, Olan didn't hesitate to swing it open. A young couple stood in front of him, hands clasped together. He recognized them as newlyweds, Tilly and Jamie. The two women had been childhood friends, and he had the pleasure of watching their friendship grow into a lively love. He had gifted them some of his Chickens, and two geese. 

“What can I help ya with ta’day.” Olan spoke cheerfully, his old age not dampening his spirits. His smile slipped from his wrinkled face when he noticed the blood speckled on their fidgeting hands. 

“Is it one of the birds?” He questions softly. The shorter of the two, Tilly, nodded, “We need your help- we don't know what we are doing - we tried our best, but he hasn’t eaten in days-and we just thought-” she stammered out nervously until he cut her off. 

“I’ll grab my things, and I can see what I can do.” He hopes it’s not a joint fracture, the poor goose or chicken will have to be put down. At least it’ll be a meal for the two. Turning back into his house that resides in the village outskirts, Olan gathers his little bundle of supplies he uses to care for the waterfowl and chickens of the village, and the occasional songbird the children bring him. It holds the supplies he splints wings with, the sharpened blade he uses to amputate un-save able chicken toes, and other supplies. As he appears back into the doorway, the couple falls silent, their faces a mixture of guilt, and worry.

“Lead the way, my friends.” Olan follows the whispering couple, past his chicken coop and duck pond. The quacks of his ducks fill the air, and a bufflehead swims sleepily in the water. Tilly’s walks faster than Jamie, shorter legs working harder to walk side by side. The trio head towards the cozy cottage the couple live in, and the sun warms the path. When they get to the door, the two unlock it, and Jamie holds the door open. Stepping in, Olan lets his eyes adjust and notices a dark stain on the floor. That’s a lot of blood on the ground, almost too much for one bird. Tilly grasps his weathered hand in hers and leads him to a room in the back. The girls stare at him warily, so he opens the door. Oh. That’s not what he was expecting. A young, blond boy is on a bed, looking more dead than alive. The kid has large wings sprouting from his back, but they are wrapped tightly in bandages, feathers barely visible under thick swathes of cloth. His breathing is labored, Olan can hear the wheezes from the doorway. Jamie and Tilly hover over his shoulder silently. With a sigh, Olan straightens his back. 

“Bit bigger than a chicken, eh?.” He makes his way to the broken kid and sighs. 

“I need ya to go back to my place, ‘n gather up some more stuff. My little kit here won’ do much. There’s a medical kit under my sink.”  He hears the sounds of two pairs of feet pattering away from him, and out the door. The kid is a mess. His face is battered, there’s an oozing wound on his forehead, and his chin is scraped up. He takes a rag from his small kit and dips it into a basin of water resting on a table by the bed. He dabs at the abrasion above his left eye and realizes the kid is eerily warm. A fever. The boy doesn’t even move when the rag catches slightly on loose skin. That’s…not good. The flesh looks raw, inflamed, and painful. At least the girls cleaned it. 

Olan is a smart man. He was a knight in his younger years, fighting a hateful leader’s war for him. He knew when it was pointless, and knew when to leave. He’s seen famine, illness, and insanity. He’s patched up many wounds, even some of his own. But this? This is something new. Olan’s a farmer now. He has chickens, geese, and mallards, and cares for them expertly. He knows when to fix a wing, when to splint a broken appendage, and when to amputate. When to put a feathered creature out of its misery. He knows how to locate injuries in a bird, and when searching for an injury can do more harm than good. But... This. This is not a bird. This is a kid. A kid with wings, and stuttering breaths, and Olan doesn’t feel prepared at all. The girls come back and give him his medical kit. They explain how the boy thrashed, screamed, clawed, and bit. They talk about how he wouldn’t eat, or drink, and how they tried to force him to consume something, anything. They spoke softly about how the coughs rattled his chest. They apologized for restraining the wings and wrapping his fingers, they didn't know how to stop him from hurting himself. Olan listened and comforted, and ensured that he would do his best to help the kid. Gods help him. 

To nurture a bird back to health, Olan knows that restraining its wings will only cause panic. That’s his first step, slowly unraveling the cloths wrapped around the appendages. Some of the secondary feathers seem to be ripped out, probably by the panicked bird,  _ no, kid,  _ when he realized he was trapped. The kid managed to break some of his pin feathers in its presumed thrashing, and only damaging his other injuries in the process. The next thing he does is open the tightly closed shades. Birds need light. He needs to see. The shirt is going to have to go. He has to look if the kid has a collarbone, what type of ribcage he has... hell, how much like a bird is this boy? Once his shirt is off, he quickly realizes that the kid has a keel and a splatter of harsh bruises. The long, thin bone structure that extends from the sternum is laid between a pair of ribs, protruding slightly. Angry bruises are spread across his chest in purple, green, and blue shades. The colors are stark against his pale skin, and Olan can only pray that the kid’s coracoid bone, assuming he has one instead of a human collar bone, is in place and not pushing on his delicate heart vessels. 

The abrasive amount of bruising on the boy’s chest suggests a broken keel, he must have taken quite a hit at high velocity to crack it. At least a simple wrapping around his chest will keep it healing just fine. It shouldn’t affect future flights. He needs to check for more injuries. Murmuring to himself, he gently drums his fingers over the kid’s clavicle, and the boy stirs. The wheezes of the kid’s breathing quicken and his eyes flutter under his eyelids. He’s definitely awake. Better for the examination. He gently pulls the battered blond into a sitting position and releases his shoulders. His left shoulder slumps downward at an awkward angle, wind sagging sadly. That’s not good. It’s what a human would call a broken collar bone. Palpitating the shoulders and chest when the coracoid  _ (Collar bone?) _ is broken could cause irreparable damage, or even kill the kid if he was a small bird. Considering it was a humanoid, he figured he could test lightly for a displacement. There was one. He looked at the boy’s face. His eyes were still screwed shut. He would have to shift it back into place after the examination, then wrap it to still excess movement. Best to keep the kid conscious though, so he waits. He carefully checks the other side and moves behind the boy to feel the back muscle by the wing. It feels lumpy, and it moves like slime under his fingers. Damn. The muscle is severely damaged, and if the kid wanted to heal faster, he would have to scrape out the shredded meat.

Without a warning, the kid’s wings twitched, then flexed. A sharp hiss of pain was torn from his throat, and Olan unthinkingly shushes the boy. Trying to soothe the pain in its wings, he cups the appendages in worn hands to still the movement, then runs one of his hands in (what he hopes-) a soothing movement down his spine. The kid tries to swivel, to look over his shoulder, but freezes in a gasp.  _ Where his eyes open? _ Olan moves in front of the boy where pain-clouded blue eyes stare at him.

“Can ya hear me?” The boy nods sluggishly. Well, at least he understands him. He looks panicked, so Olan speaks up with the first thing that comes to his mind, an introduction...

“Yer lookin’ a bit rough, aren’t cha. I'm Olan. Let’s see if we can't figure out what's wrong.” He continues drumming his fingers over possible injuries until a sharp bark of a cough startles him from his study. The kid claws at his throat and chest. The boy is heaving, gasping for air, and sways forwards. Olan reaches to steady him when his head falls forward with a lurch. He’s out cold. Olan sighs, and sets the boy on his back. At least he was able to check the rest of the main body. Going to his medical kit, he retrieves long strips of bandage and secures the keel in place. The humanoid sternum won’t move for now, and it will help the healing. He would have to wait to reset the Coracoid collar bone combination when the kid was awake, unfortunately. Hesitant to touch the wings of the child, he waits to examine them as well. While it was stressed, feverish, and clearly distrusting, messing with its source of escape would only make things worse. Olan knows not to corner a wild animal, and the kid is definitely acting like one. After double-checking the bandage wrapping around the kid’s chest, he adjusts him to his side, positioning his wings so he wouldn’t lay on them. Straightening himself with a pop, he huffs, then runs a hand through coarse salt and pepper hair. The broken boy lays in front of him, chest shakily rising and falling.  _ Gods help him. This is going to be difficult.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took my liberties with molding bird and human biology. I did my best to wrap the skeletal system of a bird in with a human. I mostly added to the human skeleton. 
> 
> Maybe Phil isn't as old as ya think. 
> 
> Character Note: Olan is based off of an Old War Veteran I knew when I was in elementary school. He worked as a janitor in the school, and he was very kind, but soft spoken, and harsh when he needed to be. He actually did take in wild birds, and fixed their wings. I remember him scooping up a barn swallow that was laying on the ground in the wooden playground. I'm not certain what happened to it, but I remember seeing him releasing many different birds after school. He passed away ages ago, but I will always remember the kindness he had.


	4. Stoking Subtle Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old soldier takes in a child warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nuthin too bad in this chapter. Took me a while cuz I've had migraines.

Olan is a smart man. He can feel the mistrust in the kid’s gaze from where he lays. He knows to tread lightly. The boy looks practically feral, frozen in fear, chest rising and falling in panicked gasps. Shifting the tray of supplies he carries, he makes his way towards the bed. Setting it down at the kid’s feet, he drags a chair from the corner of the room to sit. Olan sighs. The boy stares. Leaning forward, Olan speaks,

“I'm gunna have ta’ look at your wings. I’m not gunna hurt ya.” 

The kid blinks owlishly, then nods. Olan steadily advances towards the kid’s side, slowly pulling him upright. He moves behind him and starts assessing the wings. Although in a sorry state, there was nothing irreparable. The kid’s left side seemed to have taken the brunt of it, so he started with that side’s wing. Running his hands along the delicate bone structures, he finds a break. One of the bones had broken skin, bloody calcium piercing through the boy’s wings. The ruffled feathers hid the severity of the break. He would have to pluck some of the broken, crushed feathers from his skin so he could get clear access to the wound. When he told the boy that, he stiffened even more so. Deciding to distract him while he worked, he began speaking. 

“So kid, what brings ya to our village?” No response. 

“Are ya here with your parents? Family? Anyone?” A particularly tough feather requires tweezers, so he retrieves them. Olan plucks the feather swiftly, the boy hisses in pain and muffles a cough. He shook his head no.  _ No parents, no family at all. Half dead, Sick with a strange cough, and stranded with broken wings. What in aethers name is this kid doing. _

“Do you...have anywhere ta go?” The kid shakes his head again. Olan grunts, and leaves the boys back, hands covered in blood and feathers. He retrieves a bottle of alcohol, previously boiled water, and a clean cotton cloth. Returning to the boy, he slowly pours the water over the open wound, and the kid  _ sobs, _ shoulders shaking in agony. 

“This is going ta burn.” He douses the cotton in the booze and brings it to the wound. He wipes the bone, the skin and feathers around it, and the kid jolts in agony. Olan winces in sympathy as the kid lets out another choking cry. The boy tries to scramble away from Olan’s hands, away from the burning booze, and Olan drops the cloth and grabs his shoulders. Speaking quickly, he explains,

“I have ta move your bone back. Hold tight.” Olan grasps the bones in his old hands and shifts the protruding calcium slowly into place. The kid  _ Screeches, a _ piercing, agonizing sound, and it breaks Olan’s weathered heart. The young hands of the boy scrabble at his sides and back, trying to stop the pain in his feathered appendages. Olan tries to grasp the boy’s wrists, and the kid speaks, and Olan freezes. The voice is young, broken, and sad.  _ “Please, I can’t do this.” _ A shaky breath.  _ “Stop, it hurts, it hurts!” _ Jolting into action, Olan begins splinting the bone as fast as he can while the boy writhes in pain. The kid screams.  _ “Please! Make it stop, make it…”  _ The boy is cut off by gut-wrenching coughs, his whole body trembling in pain. Olan tosses the extra splinting material to the side and moves quickly to the boy’s front. He does the first thing he thinks of, and wraps his arms around the shaking kid, holding the boy together as he sobs and coughs. The child is gasping for air, and Olan rubs the kid’s back. He feels helpless. The boy grasps his rough shirt and clings to the old man like a lifeline. All Olan can do is rock the boy in his arms and hum. Bone grinding coughs shift to rib shaking, then to a trembling wheeze. Leaning back, he looks into the boy’s cloudy blue eyes, and see’s nothing but a broken child. He cups the kid’s face with a weathered hand and shushes him. Olan guides the boy’s sick lungs to inhale, hold, and exhale, over and over until the wheezes turn into a rasp. The child leans into his hand, and the blue eyes flutter shut. Olan speaks softly 

“Ya have a dislocated shoulder and wing, I have ta move it back.” The Kids eyes shoot open in panic, and Olan grimaces. 

“If I don't do it, it will cut off ya blood flow, and damage ya even more.” The kid nods in understanding. “I need you to take a deep breath, and when ya exhale, I’ll fix ya.” The kid inhales, and Olan positions his hands. He exhales, and with a loud pop, the old man relocates the kid’s collar bone nightmare. The kid’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens in a silent scream. Olan can do nothing but run a hand through sweat-soaked hair, and hold the boy carefully. 

“What's your name son?” The boy is trembling slightly, but the way he twitches seems to incline his thinking. A weak voice squeaks out,

“ _ Philza.”  _

And Olan smiles.

“Philza. Can I call ya Phil?” 

The boy, no, Philza, nods weakly. Olan sighs, leans back and looks at the kid. “How old are you.” It’s a question, but the way it’s said leaves no room to not answer. Phil refuses to meet kind old eyes and wheezes a number far too small for Olan’s liking. 

“16.”

Olan nods his head and looks out the window. _The boy was going to need a place to stay. He had room in his home. He was going to take care of the kid, even if no one else would._

“I'm going ta bring ya some food, then Ya need to sleep, kiddo. We can figure out that nasty cough o’ yours later.” Phil nods, and Olan leaves the young boy sitting in his temporary bed. 

***

Phil finally ate. He had finally felt safe enough to inhale the stew given to him. When Olan had splinted his wings, he thought that he would be unable to move them, but the splint was flexible. It did the job of keeping his bones in place while allowing movement. It was nice. 

***

When he was given his supplies back, he wasn't expecting to be apologized to. Two women walked into the room, holding his gear. Setting it down infront of him, the taller one spoke up,

“Sorry about wrapping your wings so tightly. We weren’t really certain what to do.” Phil blinked,  _ no one ever apologized for restraining his wings, especially in the pits,  _ and nodded his head slowly. 

“It’s fine..”

After a beat of silence, the two shuffled out, leaving him with his gear, which he looked over. The bow was missing. He must have dropped it when he was slammed out of the sky. He had left his sword behind. He needed more arrows. Many more arrows. He needed to go soon. 

***

He still has that nasty cough. It won’t go away any time soon. He’s seen it last a year, and with the amount of magic he inhaled, Phil wouldn’t doubt his cough would stick around. Each time he hacked up a hunk of purple mucus, he was reminded of his failure. 

***

The last time he felt this useless was when he was chained in the pit. At least that wasn't his fault. Avian hybrids were rare, and clearly, the slavers who had found him knew that. Before, it was wrought iron chains chafing his wrists, securing his ankles to the ground, and wings to the wall. Now, it’s a choking cough, aching midsection, and agonizing wing pain.  _ If he wakes up that night in a cold sweat, remembering the neck of a cow hybrid breaking in his hands, no one has to know. If he stares up at the stars outside his window, remembering when he hadn’t seen them for months, instead, staring at the slate ceiling of a cage, no one has to know. If he silently cries, remembering the other kids he left behind as he fought his way through guards, towards his escape, no one has to know.  _

***

Phil doesn’t mind Olan’s company, not even when he pokes around his bruising body, muttering to himself. The old man is nice. 

***

Phil still has a job to do. It’s been five days since his wings were bandaged, and he has to leave. He needs to gather more supplies, he has to get a new bow, he has to- His shaky movements are cut off by a door opening. Olan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. 

“Eight weeks.” That’s all he said. Phil stops and stares at the man. 

“Your primary feathers are broken. Ya can’t fly for at least three months. Not ta mention, ya have a fracture.” 

_ He’s grounded for at least eight weeks. That’s too long. Too long.  _ Phil’s hands shake, and he feels panic grip his chest and spots swirl in his vision. He feels like he is falling into an abyss, chains wrapping around him, dragging him down, down, _ down, down. _ Then Olan is there, calloused hands gripping his shoulders, the wingless man soaring him out of the pit he was suffocating in. He speaks, old voice comforting and warm,

“I don’t know what has ya in a hurry, but ya can't leave when your still healin’.” He sighs and pushes a hand through salt and pepper hair.

“The girls don’t mind ya stayin’ with them, but they think ya should go with me ta my home. They want me ta keep an eye on your wings, and I am more than willin’ ta do that.” Phil knows that the man is right, that leaving is a death sentence, but he still feels the pool of universe pulling at his mind. He has to heal, needs his strength, so that night, he follows the old man to his house, and stays. 

Phil helps with the man’s farm. Planting produce, feeding chickens, eating a full meal. It’s odd, to have someone care. He tires to fly to soon, and ends up opening a wound. Olan just patches him back up.

When Phil wakes up screaming, Olan is there. He sits with him until morning.

A stray dog got its jaws on a goose’s wing. After chasing the mutt off, Olan scoops up the honking bird in both arms. Phil helps set the crunched wing.

They get a cow. Phil helps build a stable for it. He can flap his wings with less pain now. Olan talks about a war he fought in, and Phil listens. 

Three months pass. Phil finds himself enjoying the small village. He goes on small test flights, wings shaking in effort. He isn’t quite strong enough to leave, the first of many times he stumbles, Olan is there to pick him up. It’s nice. 

  
  


Olan never pushes him to talk about what Phil had been doing in the mountains, Not even when he began hoarding loose feathers from the geese. He only helps him fletch arrow after arrow. 

Olan gives him a bow. The weapon hums with energy. Olan explains that it’s enchanted, with what, he doesn’t know. The old man had used it in a battle, he recalled, as shaky hands ran over old wood. 

Phil tells the man his plan to kill the beast one night as they eat. Olan takes his wire-framed glasses off of his face and looks at the boy. “Okay.” They finish dinner in content silence.

He flies steadily now, wings beating in the air easily. It’s been a year. He stayed longer than he meant to, but there were a few pillagers hanging around, in groups of three or four. They made him nervous. He purchased a sword and began waiting for the next group to swing around. When they did, he slaughtered them. When another group came, he killed them as well. Unfortunately, his fights had drawn the attention of his caretaker. He wasn't lectured, the old man had merely sighed, and gave him a damp rag to wipe his face. A larger group swung around after five more normal patrols, ten of the gray-skinned mercenaries holding axes and crossbows. Phil had dropped from the sky, Iron sword glinting in the fading sunlight. Slicing through the group was easy, repetitive, soothing. His blade slashed through a crossbow with a  _ twang _ , tensioned string breaking in the hands of the brute holding it.  _ Advance. Deflect. Lunge. Repeat. _ He could feel the energy of the fight humming in his bones. Each mercenary was cut down, and he flicked his wings out as the last one had its chest speared through. Crimson blood flew off his wings in droplets, and he raised his blue eyes to the sky. He breathed deep, in and out. He was coughing less. That night, Olan helped him burn the bodies, and the banner they carried. The villagers gathered around the steaming pile of flesh and thanked him. It was odd, they tread on thin ice around the winged child soldier as if he would snap and run them through next. 

Phil began fighting the creatures of the night more. Spiders seemed to be growing larger in size every month, and the amount of the undead raised each moon. The pillagers still sent parties to try and ransack the tiny village, and Phil still cut them down. The people started calling him the angel of death. Olan called him his son. It had been two years, but they were not wasteful. He had learned new fighting techniques, both from Olan, and travelers passing through town. It was odd, people would travel through the village, ask for the Angel. He would hide in his room those days. Olan never told the travelers he was there. 

His cough was gone, the murmuring of the universe wasn't. Phil grew restless, wings twitching at every noise, fingers drumming on the table. He tells Olan he needs to leave soon. The old man nods in understanding. “When ya come back, I’ll get a pie from the baker.” Phil almost doesn’t want to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this is the last slow chapter, things pick up from now on :)!!
> 
> Birds of prey can apply over 500lbs of pressure using its talons. An avian hybrid would be stronger than the average human, just based off of that alone. 
> 
> I hope those who read this enjoy, comments and suggestions are appreciated <3


End file.
